The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror (10 page)

     Suddenly, the sadistic fiend stopped and I could see that his lifeless eyes had locked upon the raven talisman around my neck. He slowly reached toward the ebony talon, touching it and lifting it with one bony finger. Then the ghoulish doctor smiled at me with his hideous crocodile fangs and lowered the scalpel to my chest. I barely felt a thing as the razor-sharp blade sliced through my skin, but the warm trickle of blood betrayed the fact that one or more incisions had been made. The doctor then cut through the leather strap that bound my left arm to the operating table, and with a tip of his top hat he turned and stepped back through the portal in the wall.
     The green glow of the ritual circle began to fade and the opening in the bricks started to grow smaller, but before it closed completely, a black tendril emerged from the darkness within and slithered across the floor to wrap itself around Danny's ankles. Danny clawed at the cobblestones as the serpentine appendage dragged him toward the shrinking portal and the ravenous storm of shadows that raged within. With a sickening, whimpering cry, he was swallowed by the churning blackness as the portal collapsed inward, sealing the hellish gateway, and then the room fell deathly silent.
     I quickly freed myself from the remaining restraints and searched the chamber, but found no trace of Danny. I examined the ritual circle and searched the bricks for an opening, but the wall was solid. I took some photos of the inverted triangle and surrounding scrawlings, right before I demolished the wall with my sledge hammer. I packed up the doctor's journals in a box and set fire to them in the woods behind the hotel. I stood guard and watched them burn to a pile of cinders. I wasn't going to take any chances on Dr. Wincott's research falling into the wrong hands again. Like creepy old Mr. Collins said, some things are best left in the past.
     Unfortunately, without any evidence, no one was likely to believe my story, but that didn't stop me from submitting it for the discerning scrutiny of my loyal readers. As for the raven talisman, I don't know whether to destroy this thing or never take it off. It's either going to save my neck from the Devil or send my soul to Hell.
     On a final note, the incisions the doctor made on my chest have finally healed. The scars form a strange arcane symbol, just over my heart. I have no doubt that this unknown marking will lead me to further dark mysteries which I will be compelled to investigate. Somehow I get the sickening feeling that I haven't seen the last of the diabolical Dr. Wincott, but as far as I'm concerned, the case of the Westgate Phantom is closed.

by Joseph Vargo

I
t sat on the top shelf of the bookcase in my room amidst a menagerie of other neglected toys—the evil little harlequin doll. Its porcelain face was crackled and painted with garish clown make-up, framed by twisted strands of black and white hair. Its mouth was frozen in a maniacal smile, and its eyes followed you wherever you moved in the room. The doll's clothes were a patchwork of blue and scarlet satin, adorned with tiny bells for buttons. I was afraid to go anywhere near it, and when I laid in bed at night, the doll stared at me from across the room, its unblinking eyes glistening in the darkness.
     When I asked my older brother to get rid of the doll, he refused, and said that the thing scared him too. Then he told me the real story about where the sinister toy came from. He said that the doll used to belong to Mr. Matheson, an old man who lived down the street who passed away in his sleep one night. My brother said that Mr. Matheson didn't just die in his sleep. He said the doll killed him. He told me that the doll came alive one night and slit the old man's throat with his straight razor. Then he said the clown sliced out his heart and ate it. He said that's how the doll stayed alive. I pretended not to be afraid and told him that his stories didn't bother me, but every night I went to sleep with the covers pulled over my head and prayed to God that I'd be safe.
     After several months of restless nights, my parents went away and left us alone for the evening, leaving my brother in charge. They made us both promise to behave while they were gone, and of course we lied and swore we would. My brother didn't say a word to me all night, until it was time for me to go to sleep. Before he closed the door to my room, he whispered to me that it was the anniversary of the night that Mr. Matheson died, and that the doll would be hungry tonight.
     As I laid in bed that night, I heard the low rumbling of thunder, announcing the approach of a distant storm. Soon, jagged streaks of lightning tore through the night sky, accompanied by ear-splitting thunderstrikes. As the storm grew, rain pounded against my window and lightning lit up my room at irregular intervals. I buried my head beneath my blankets and occasionally opened the covers enough to peak out from below. Lightning flashed sporadically to illuminate the toy shelf. The clown looked even more menacing in the flickering glow. As each flash lit up his face, he glared at me with his evil grimace then disappeared into the shadows as the room returned to darkness. One immense burst of lightning revealed something different about the doll. The strobing light caught the glint of something shiny clutched tightly in his porcelain hands—something long and metallic, that looked like one of my mother's crochet needles.
     I pulled the covers closed and began to whisper a prayer, but was interrupted by a crashing sound, as if something had fallen to the floor. My heart pounded and my breath grew heavy as I peered out from beneath my covers. Another flash of lightning streaked through the room and I saw that the clown was no longer sitting on the shelf. Then I heard a scratching noise that sounded as if something were scurrying across my bedroom floor. I tried to cry out, but my throat had gone completely dry.
This wasn't happening,
I thought.
This was some kind of dream, a horrible nightmare,
I told myself, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't wake up.
     Seconds later, I felt something tugging at the covers at the foot of my bed. I pulled the blankets and sheets over my head and held them tight. Then I remembered that I had stashed my pocketknife beneath my pillow. My hand was trembling as I slowly slid it between the sheet and pillowcase. As I took the knife in my hand, I felt tiny footfalls moving along the bed, ever so slowly, as if the doll were trying to creep up on me as I slept. And then I heard a sound that made my heart stand still—a slight jingling of bells.
     I fumbled to open the pocketknife. The footsteps drew closer and closer, until I felt something tug at the blankets that surrounded my head. I tried to hold onto them but somehow the thing was stronger than I was and I could feel the covers slipping away. A deafening thunderstrike broke the silence, and with a scream, I threw back the covers and lashed out with my knife, flailing wildly in the darkness. I felt the blade tear through the thing's flesh and heard its body hit the floor.
     When my parents returned home, they found me huddled in the corner of my room, curled in a fetal pose. On the floor next to the bed, my brother lay in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been slashed and his body lay lifeless and cold. The doll sat beside him, smiling his evil smile, laughing at me.
The patient finished his story, immobilized by thick leather restraints that shackled his wrists and ankles to the hospital bed. "That was twenty-two years ago, and I've been here ever since. The police said that my brother must have snuck into my room to scare me. I tried to tell them what had really happened—that the doll was alive, but no one would believe me. They said that I killed him, but it was the doll...
it was the doll,
and he's coming for me." The doctor stepped closer to examine a jagged series of scars lining the patient's arms and face, then jotted some notes on his chart. "They restrained me because they think I did this to myself, but it was the doll, and he's coming back tonight. You've got to believe me. You've got to get me out of here," his voice grew more excited. "They stabbed me with needles and drugged me and left me in this padded cell, alone in bleak darkness, with no way to defend myself." He struggled in vain against his bonds as the two doctors turned to leave. "Don't leave me here like this! Please," he begged, "don't leave me here
with him!"
But his cries fell upon unsympathetic ears as the heavy steel door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the solitude of his dark cell.
     As the distant thunder erupted, lightning illuminated the dim corners of the room. Tears welled in his eyes as he heard the sound of jingling bells. The lightning flickered to reveal a small figure that had stepped forward from the shadows, then the room was engulfed in cruel darkness once more.

by Joseph Vargo

Along a dark, forsaken road,
There stands a stark and grim abode —
An old manor house looms black and tall,
To cast a grave and deathly pall—
Beyond the ancient wrought iron gate,
A thousand nightmares lie in wait —
For dark things dwell in this house of fear,
And none but the dead dare trespass here—

S
tories of haunted houses abound throughout America and Europe, but few can boast as many ghostly and unnatural occurrences as Darklore Manor, the abandoned Victorian mansion that once loomed over the town of Gloucester, Massachusetts, just up the coast from Salem. Strange and unbelievable tales have been passed down from the time of the earliest settlers to the region, spawning dark and ominous legends that have survived to this day. Native American tribes named the area "the place where shadows walk," and seldom ventured near the surrounding forests. It is also believed that the region was originally settled by citizens of Salem Village who fled the town during the infamous witch trials in 1692, and that the area became a haven for practitioners of black magic.
     Whatever the true historical origins, it is a place where spirits of the dead do not rest easy, nor do they find release from their eternal sorrow. As for Darklore Manor, its history is a grim and tragic tale, steeped in darkness and blood.
     The mansion was built by Edmund Darklore for his lovely young bride Delarosa during the end of the 19th century. Construction of the three-story, forty-room Victorian manor began in 1889 and was completed three years later. During the course of its construction, two stone masons were crushed to death beneath a wall of bricks when a hoist rigging mysteriously snapped in two.
     Over the next forty years, a series of tragedies and deaths plagued those who would call Darklore Manor home. In 1941, the last of the Darklore bloodline, Damon Darklore, his wife Elizabeth and their daughter Belladonna vanished without a trace overnight, leaving the mansion deserted.
     Abandoned and left to fall into disrepair, this once elegant manor began its decline into decay. Eventually, tales of ghostly sightings began to surface around the deserted mansion. Throughout the years there have been numerous reports of strange lights and sounds coming from inside the house. A dark form known as the "Shadow Man" has been sighted at the entrance gates. Another ghost, known as the "Lady in Black," is believed to be the spirit of Belladonna Darklore, and has been sighted wandering the manor grounds and halls. It is said that her dark form appears when the clock strikes the midnight hour.
     So many rumors and tales have been told about the mansion and its ghosts over the years that it has become difficult to discern fact from fiction.
     My name is Pamela Moore, and I am the last surviving person that knows the true legend of Darklore Manor.
My tale begins in 1967. I was twenty-four years old and had landed a job working as the personal assistant to a woman named Sandra Faraday. Sandra was somewhat of a celebrity in certain circles. She had gained some notoriety as a psychic and spiritualist and was highly respected in the occult community. In addition to her paranormal research, she had written several articles on ghosts and the supernatural and she had hired me to help her assemble and edit a book of her collected essays. There was a strange contrast between my strict Catholic upbringing and Sandra's occult beliefs and skeptical views on religion. Although we didn't see eye to eye on certain spiritual matters, Sandra and I were as close as sisters. Many a night we sat up talking over a bottle of wine, discussing man's place in the cosmic design and debating concepts of the afterlife.
     One Monday morning in late September I reported to Sandra's home bright and early for work. I had just returned to New York after visiting my parents in Pennsylvania. Sandra answered the door in her bathrobe and handed me a cup of coffee before I even stepped inside.
     "You read my mind," I said, taking a sip of the freshly brewed java.
     "That's what I do," she replied with a smile as she sauntered into the kitchen.
     Despite what some people believed, Sandra couldn't actually read minds or foretell the future, but she definitely possessed an uncanny sense of intuition about people and places. She could tell things about a person simply by touching something that belonged to them and if she visited a place, she knew things about the people who lived there, even if they had died long ago.
     I took a seat at the kitchen table as Sandra poured herself a cup of herbal tea. The latest issue of
Haunted Havens,
a pulp occult magazine, was sitting on the table. The magazine had run an interview with Sandra a few months earlier discussing several famous hauntings. In her typical straightforward style, Sandra didn't pull any punches. She bluntly voiced her opinion on the sites in question, stating which ones she thought were authentic and which ones were hoaxes, adding that she would have to visit the sites in person to get more accurate impressions from the spirits that dwelled there.
     The article generated a lot of letters, mostly from people who applauded Sandra's honesty and professional scrutiny. In addition to a nominal payment, the publisher gave her a lifetime subscription to Haunted Havens as compensation for the interview.
     "Take a look at this," she said, opening the magazine to an article titled "The Curse of Darklore Manor." A black and white photograph showed a decrepit Victorian mansion looming behind tall iron gates covered with withered vines. The stately manor looked imposing, to say the least.
     "Darklore Manor? I've never heard of this place."
     "It's in Massachusetts, near Salem—in a little seaport town named Gloucester." She pointed to a section of the article labeled Mysterious Deaths, and said "Here, read this part."
     I picked up the magazine and began to read it aloud. "'On the night of November 27th, 1961, area businessman Theodore Thompson and his wife, Sharon, were killed in an automobile accident when their car crashed into a tree in front of the mansion. They were survived by their six-year-old son, Theo Jr., who told the police that his father swerved the car to avoid hitting a woman dressed in black who was standing in the middle of the road, directly in front of the gates leading to the house.
     "'On March 13th, 1962, local councilman Richard Franklin was found hanged to death inside the manor. Although no note was found, the case was ruled a suicide. One curious footnote concerns the fact that Councilman Franklin was the last surviving member of the Brotherhood of Thule, a masonic order of town elders that was founded by Edmund Darklore.'" I looked at Sandra. "Is any of this stuff true?"
     "Yes, and there's more," Sandra said, taking a sip of her tea. "The article claims that the mansion is the site of more than a dozen mysterious deaths. According to the story, these fatalities are believed to be connected to the occult rituals practiced by this mysterious Brotherhood of Thule."
     "Sandra, you know how
Haunted Havens
likes to sensationalize their stories."
     "I know. That was my first impression too, but I've been doing some research on this place and it all checks out. A letter written by Edmund Darklore's last surviving descendant, Damon Darklore, claims that his ancestors fell victim to a curse brought on by their own macabre delvings into the realm of black magic. According to popular accounts of the legend, the Darklores conducted arcane ceremonies involving ancient sacrificial rites within a secret chamber deep below the manor. Whether intentionally or by accident, they awakened an ancient evil which caused the plague of deaths surrounding the mansion throughout the years. The legend states that whatever was conjured forth not only claimed several human lives, but also stole the souls of those who died within the manor, leaving them cursed to haunt the mansion and grounds for eternity."
     "Lovely."
     "Yes, but that's not the best part. The story goes on to say that something unnatural still dwells there, lying in wait for unwary visitors, hungering for the blood of the living and the souls of the dead."
     "Sounds a little melodramatic. You can't possibly be buying all of this."
     "I know it all sounds pretty far-fetched, but I actually think this place is worth looking into. I've been having some strange dreams lately."
     Among her many unexplainable abilities, Sandra's dreams were often prophetic. "Anything you'd care to share?" I asked.
     "They're vague, but I'm in a very dark place, surrounded by shadowy figures. They're whispering to me, calling my name. They're trying to tell me something, but I can't understand what they're saying. I'm not sure if it's an invitation or some kind of a warning."
     "How many times have you had the dream?"
     "Twice in the past few nights. They began right after I got this." She withdrew a clear plastic sleeve from inside a large manila envelope. An old letter was sealed inside the protective cover. The aged parchment was yellowed and tattered at the fringes. The handwriting displayed an antiquated style that was elegant, yet masculine. A blood-red wax seal held an ornate letter D at the bottom.
     "Is this what I think it is?"
     Sandra nodded her head. "The genuine article. Go ahead and read it."
     I carefully took the letter from her hand and began to read its grim contents.
W
oe befalls all who dwell within Darklore Manor, for those who have met their fate within this blighted place are cursed to forever wander its unhallowed halls. Within this sanctuary of shadows, the restless dead can find no surcease from their eternal suffering.
     I have brought this curse upon myself, as did my ancestors before me. I hereby confess my guilt, for I have conspired in blasphemous acts and have committed grievous and ghastly deeds. And though I be the last of the Darklore bloodline, this curse shall not end with my death, for we have awakened a great darkness, and its unfathomable hungers cannot be quenched. May the Lord have mercy on my soul. I implore you to heed my warning. Leave this place and never return, lest ye fall victim to the Darklore curse and are doomed to an eternity of suffering and sorrow.
It was signed Damon Darklore.
     "How did you get this?" I asked.
     "Carl Weiss brought it over."
     "The editor of
Haunted Havens
?"
     "One and the same," she replied. "He wanted to see if I could get any impressions from the letter. He wouldn't tell me how he acquired it, but he said he had the writing checked against Damon Darklore's signature from an old land deed and he swears it's authentic."
     "What did you tell him?"
     "I got a very weird vibe from it. I've never felt anything quite like it before. I told him that I thought the legend was definitely something worth looking into, and he agreed. We started discussing the possibility of conducting a paranormal investigation of Darklore Manor."
     "And?" I asked.
     Sandra took a long sip of her tea, then smiled and asked, "How would you like to spend the night in a haunted house?"
     I stared at her blankly, unable to respond. Sandra capitalized on my silence, using it as an opportunity to pitch her idea.
     "Carl pulled some strings with the mayor of Gloucester. It's all set up. We'll have the run of the place for twenty-four hours. We'll document our findings and
Haunted Havens
will run it as a feature, promoting it as 'Sandra Faraday Spends the Night in a Haunted Mansion.' It'll be a great chapter for my book, not to mention all the publicity that something like this is bound to bring us."
     "When is this all supposed to take place?" I asked.
     "The day after tomorrow."
     "What?"
     "We've got to move quick on this thing. Carl wants it for his Halloween issue. It's only a four-hour drive from here. If we leave here early Wednesday morning, we can be there before noon.
     "That won't give me much time to prepare."
     "Here's my research notes," she said, sliding the manila envelope across the table. "I just need you to see what you can dig up on this Brotherhood of Thule."
     "We'll need a cameraman to document everything."
     "It's all been taken care of," Sandra replied with a reassuring grin, "I talked it over with Ronnie and he's in."
     "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"
     "No one's been inside the mansion for years. And no one's ever conducted an official paranormal investigation of the place. This could be really big. If there is something there, we'll be the first to document it. Worst case scenario, there's nothing there and we get to explore a cool old mansion and debunk a legend."
     "Did you ever consider an even-worse case scenario?"
     "Like what?"
     "Like maybe this Darklore curse is real and we all die horrible deaths inside the house."
     "That's the spirit," she said with a laugh, then asked "Are you in?"
     Had I only told Sandra "no," I might have enjoyed a healthy and prosperous life, free from the horrors that now plague my nightmares. But even though I had some lingering reservations about joining her expedition into the domain of the supernatural, I was intrigued by the legend of Darklore Manor and I chose to satisfy my own morbid curiosity.
     "I'm in," I said.
     There are certain occasions when we find ourselves at a crossroad in our lives, presented with two choices, never knowing how one simple decision may drastically alter the course of our destiny. The wrong choice at such a juncture could be disastrous, setting into motion a series of events that inevitably lead to irreversible catastrophe. This was one such time.
Sandra had wasted no time in assembling her team to investigate the haunting. She had recruited her photographer friend Ron Cooke who, in turn, enlisted the services of a lighting and recording technician named Jake Martelli. The two of them had worked together on several professional ghost hunts in the past, exploring historical sites and graveyards in search of restless spirits.
     Aside from being the star of the show, Sandra also acted as the producer and director, overseeing every minute detail of the investigation. My duties were perhaps the most mundane. After gathering the preliminary research, my job entailed penning an impromptu script for Sandra and taking shorthand notes to document everything we witnessed inside the manor. It was a compact but efficient squad with each member capable of juggling several duties.
     The investigation was scheduled for September 27th. The plan was to spend the entire day and night inside the mansion then leave the next afternoon. Once the investigation was finished, Sandra and I had two days to write the article and get it to Carl Weiss just in time for his magazine's Halloween issue. It was a tight schedule, but we'd met tougher deadlines in the past.